Night comes on like
an old hound lumbering
in from the field.
I don\'t fight it.
I\'m getting too old.
I sit with pen in hand,
and wait for the
darkness to show
me something.
I think about vaginas and
Ireland and fish that
hunt a t night.
I think about
Bukowski and
Beethoven, and the
clitoris, and a kernel
of corn.
I think about my
life and this night, and
how it is better than
those near-death years of
caterwauling and chaos;
drunk by the river, lonely
as a glass snake.
I was living to drink, and
didn\'t give a damn about
anyone.
I was searching.
I found it
when the light came.